essays

The line to see Now, Now at Sonia Night Club snaked around the street, all the way past the building’s colorful murals. Anticipation was a big theme outside the Cambridge venue– strangers buzzed to one another about the last time they’d seen the band, touting dates and venue names like trophies. Now, Now’s 5 year gap between albums left their followers waiting anxiously for a sign, and recently they’ve been in luck: the band released “SGL,” the first single from their upcoming album, and embarked on a tour at the start of the summer. The venue is packed, from the stage to the sound booth, and everyone is ready for the reemergence of their elusive indie pop favorite.

I’ve been following the band for a while. I saw them in 2012 when they were touring as an opener, playing songs from their newly-released sophomore album “Threads.” It was a hardcore alt show and people were there to scream, to barrel into one another, and leave with their ears blown out… and here was this brooding indie band with a xylophone set up center stage. Something in the air changed as the room went quiet, and people began nodding their heads to the soft and powerfully emotive vocals of frontwoman KC Dalager. It’s not that Now, Now is low-energy or particularly low-volume, but something in KC’s voice is delicate, able to zing your heart not only with the vivid imagery and honest emotion of her lyrics, but also with the sweet clarity of her delivery.

The night of July 11th at Sonia Nightclub in Cambridge, MA, the band had the same arresting sound. However, the Now, Now that took the stage appeared to have grown into themselves, and played with an air of confidence and precision that their 2012 selves hadn’t quite mastered yet. In the pink glow of the stage lights, KC skipped around the stage with her electric guitar. She interacted casually with her bandmates, making quips to longtime friend and drummer Brad Hale. They’re the artsy, hilarious kids you always wanted to hang with. And luckily, the show was also especially interactive for the audience, as KC responded to shouted jokes from crowd members (and ended up calling dibs on the drag name Shameless Rob). “Every show has its own inside jokes that no one at the other dates understands,” laughed KC. The crowd, though generally un-rowdy, sang loudly through Now, Now’s entire set. When KC played “Dead Oaks” acoustically, their voices were almost louder than her amplified one. Some members of the audience even shouted the upper harmony, and for a second the room felt like an impromptu acapella show. That feeling of bonding with a room of strangers is like nothing else, and even KC exclaimed at the beauty of the moment.

In addition to their newfound performance chops, Now, Now has undergone an evolution sound-wise. “Threads” was somber, exploring the confused desperation of fading relationships against a background of synth and haunting guitar riffs. The consistent lyrical theme of threads and patterns illustrates so perfectly the fragility of our connections– one wrong pull can unravel everything. If Now, Now’s “Threads” felt like a reflective walk through a shaded forest, their new material is a step into the sun. Though their upcoming third album isn’t out yet, the songs they’ve unveiled so far reveal a much lighter, pop-inspired tone. At Sonia, they played a yet-unreleased track “AZ,” a slow-cruising ode to summer adventures past. And “SGL”, the first single, is a perfect summer anthem: against fast paced acoustic guitar, KC sings out the thrill of being with someone perfect for you. “I could’ve died/with you there in the sun,” she confesses, “You’re my shotgun lover and I want it all.”

Don’t miss Now, Now in your city; they go back on tour in early September!

Lina Tullgren has a very cozy presence. It’s a just-barely-30-degrees night in Northampton, Massachusetts, and the heat inside this rustic cafe is fogging up the picture windows from the inside. With the vibrant succulents hanging loosely from the curtain rods, twinkle lights abound, it’s like a cozy greenhouse. Lina, her bandmate, Ty Ueda, and I sit huddled around a shiny wooden table, and as we shed our layers of coats and scarves, it was obvious they were high school best friends– they laugh and reminisce freely, riffing on one another the way you only can with someone who has seen you grow up. This specific tour, they tell me, they organized themselves, and they brought a bunch of their musician friends with them to crash on couches around New England for the week. Their faces, still pink from the cold, light up. They love their friends. “A lot of our friends put out really fantastic records in 2016, which is very lucky,” Lina grins, “It’s super cool to have your friends doing awesome stuff and be able to smile upon each other with gratitude.”

The pair plays their set a few hours later in a similarly warm, tightly-packed hub– a second-story house venue looking out over the silent main street. It’s intimate, and it’s easy to feel out of place in a stranger’s apartment, but everyone is lively and open, starting loud conversations as they perch on scratchy couches and lean against the kitchen counter. As Lina and Ty set up their gear at the far end of the living room, the crowd goes silent and sits on the floor. “Swing low/When you speak, speak low,” Lina sings, fragile and tough in the same syllables. She and Ty strum through songs off of 2016’s Wishlist EP, and the room feels lighter, more soft around the edges. When Lina sings, it’s like she’s singing to her friends. “I wonder how you found now that you’re older again.”

I was twelve years old when my father and I went shopping for my first electric guitar. As I browsed the Gibsons and Fenders, I could feel the employees eyeing me nervously. They were quick to point me towards the acoustic guitars in the corner, asking if I “needed any assistance, young lady.” When they approached my father, however, the conversation took on the tone of equals discussing the minutiae of the instruments. The disheartening tone of the day shifted when I spotted pink glitter gleaming from the rows of instruments. The tag read, “Daisy Rock Girl Guitars”, and it was love at first sight. Its feminine aesthetic, such a stark contrast in the sea of overtly “masculine” guitars, really spoke to my identity at the time. Leaving the store, I felt validated in my new identity as a female electric guitarist. Daisy Rock, my shining beacon of hope in the Guitar Center, sent the message that there was a place for girls like me in rock music.
Unfortunately, as a female guitarist, this experience is not unique, and it exemplifies the type of gender stereotyping that sparked the creation of Daisy Rock. Since the guitar company’s inception in 2000, founder Tish Ciravolo has strived to “level the playing field” for women interested in the guitar, stating her desire to “create a better experience for [girls] in the music industry” (DaisyRock.com). Daisy Rock does indeed challenge the gender norms of rock music, by encouraging young girls to learn a traditionally “masculine” skill, providing them an outlet with which to express themselves, and carving out a space for adolescent females in the male-dominated world of electric guitars.

Nonetheless, the Daisy Rock message is problematical. Daisy Rock’s hyper feminine image reflects gender norms by implying that young girls have a purely superficial attraction to the instruments rather than an actual interest in the music, and strengthens gender divides by implying that all other guitars are inherently “male”. Through a sociological lens, and specifically with references to Laurel Richardson’s essay on gendered language and Barrie Thorne’s essay concerning adolescent gendered interactions, I explore the brand’s relation to stereotypical concepts of gender. Daisy Rock Girl Guitars both reproduce gender, by promoting an image of gender normative superficial femininity over genuine musicianship; and challenge gender, by creating a space for girls in the traditionally male-dominated world of electric guitars.

“All girls to the front!” In the middle of a dirty, dimly-lit punk show, the music has crashed to a stop, allowing the band’s spritely singer to command the audience. She paces the stage, microphone in hand. Her black hair is pulled into a messy ponytail, and she stares out into the crowd unapologetically in a plaid bra and black mini skirt. The room buzzes with uncertainty, but her demeanor makes it clear that disobeying is not an option. She waves her arms wildly, all at once beckoning and threatening her audience. “I’m not kidding.” As the band explodes into their next song, a row of teenage girls lines the stage, gazing up in wonder at this feminine force of nature. They move in unison, some even throwing flowers onto the tiny stage, in a bubble of safety from the punk boys violently dancing behind them. Thrashing across the platform, she shrieks over the pounding bass. “We are Bikini Kill, and we want revolution… GIRL! STYLE! NOW!”